


Sounds Better in the Song

by romanticalgirl



Category: Drive-By Truckers
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-01
Updated: 2013-01-01
Packaged: 2017-12-04 23:20:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,873
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/716225
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/romanticalgirl/pseuds/romanticalgirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Read between the lines</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sounds Better in the Song

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to [](http://minervacat.livejournal.com/profile)[**minervacat**](http://minervacat.livejournal.com/) for beta-duty and to [](http://quicknow.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://quicknow.livejournal.com/)**quicknow** for the idea.
> 
> Originally posted 7-13-08

Patterson doesn’t lie about things. He’s shit at remembering what he’s supposed to have done, so he just doesn’t even bother. He especially can’t lie to Cooley because they’ve known each other too long and too well, so it’s more that he just didn’t tell him what he was doing tonight when he headed out and headed east.

He knows he shouldn’t be here. Muscle Shoals is too much like home and too damn dangerous, but he really doesn’t know what else to do, because he’s here for those same reasons he shouldn’t be. Because here’s where it started and here’s where it ends, and anything else seems like it wouldn’t quite be right. Besides, no one has to know except him and his guilty conscience, and he knows his conscience doesn’t talk to anyone but him, late at night when it hurts the most.

Jason’s playing at a small club, not one of their normal haunts, but one Patterson knows enough to slide in the back after the lights are down and keep out of sight. He knows these songs, and they all hurt him in different ways – good and bad, and while everyone else solves puzzles with the lyrics, Patterson relives things that he didn’t like living through the first time, only now they make him feel even guiltier than they did then. Not that he doesn’t love how things are – he and Mike and Shonna make an amazing team – but he misses this, he misses Jason.

The crowd is loving him, and Patterson can’t help but smile. This isn’t the same dumbass, eager to please kid that he met a million years ago now, but a man who’s coming into his own. Maybe the break up is the best thing, not that that matters one way or the other since there’s no way to undo all that’s been done and said, because Jason’s shining like he used to on stage, happier than a pig in shit and loving the crowd right back. There are familiar faces in the audience, ones Patterson is used to seeing looking up at him and singing along, and new ones too, and maybe that’s what makes it all seem real. These are people here to see _Jason_ and Jason only.

Jason plays the crowd well, and he knows all the tricks now. It hasn’t been all that long since they were next to each other on stage, but the last year of it all was different than it was before, so maybe it has been longer than he thinks. That light, teasing, loving undercurrent of family wasn’t there anymore; subverted by all the pain and strife they were living through, trying to be a family when they were all falling out of love. Patterson knows the tricks and tells that Jason has, but it still kicks him in the gut and lower when Jason sings some of his songs, Truckers songs that aren’t anymore, because they’re Jason’s through and through.

Jason plays them different by himself, making them harder in some cases and softer in others. Patterson can’t help analyzing the gig; it’s something that he does in the back of his mind. It’s Cooley’s voice that does it too, which he really tries to curb here and now, because even though he knows he’s missed “Chicago Promenade”, Jason doesn’t want Cooley at his shows, and probably especially the Cooley in Patterson’s head. Still, making music and touring is their job, and this is like some sort of performance review, doing this right, that wrong, that _very_ right. Jason’s tactile and still like a goddamned puppy, needing affection and attention.

The songs are breathtaking, especially the old Truckers songs, because Patterson isn’t used to _hearing_ them so much as he’s used to playing along and singing harmony, so it’s a new experience, similar to the first time Jason would bring them to the band, picking out the notes and singing half the time, humming the other, until suddenly it was a song and it was on the album, fleshed out and finalized. Here it’s like skipping all the middle parts, even on songs he’s heard before, because they’re new to him now. _Danko/Manuel_ is lusher, softer and Jason’s voice growls through the lyrics, and Patterson leans forward over his beer, watching Jason’s hands move over the strings like a lover’s hands, coaxing them all higher. He sees others singing along, swaying to the hypnotic sound, and the impulse to be up there, to be _near_ him is almost overwhelming. He grips his bottle to keep himself rooted to the spot, waiting for the spell to end long enough for him to pull a desperately needed drink into his throat.

 _Goddamn Lonely Love_ comes up and Patterson rubs his hand against his thigh and then presses it against his cock, wondering when Jason learned to seduce people with his music, wondering how much whiskey it’s going to take to get out of here alive. Patterson can pick out the women and men who are willing to go backstage afterwards, to find a dark alley or a dark corner and suck Jason off, or more. He can see it in their eyes, in the way they lean forward. Patterson’s gotten good at not noticing them at their own shows – he’s got a wife and a kid and a band and Cooley – but he knows that Jason doesn’t have any of those things anymore. Shonna got them in the divorce and the break up and so Jason’s got a whole new world opened up to him, a world where he can say yes, and please, and simply moan as he arches his back.

Patterson groans into his bottle and closes his eyes, unwilling to watch the offers laid at Jason’s feet. Jason takes a drink and says thank you, his voice whiskey rough and warm, hitting Patterson in all the places that aren’t allowed anymore. Taking a shaky breath, Patterson orders another round with a wave of his hand and prays for a harder song, something with enough rock to get his mind moving again, get his head back in the game. Jason provides, hitting the strides of _Brand New Kind of Actress_ and getting the crowd back into a frenzy of movement. He’s seduced them and now they’re his, if they weren’t already from the moment he took the stage.

Patterson knows he needs to leave, but he knows he can’t. Has to see it out to the end and live through it all. It’s not punishment, but maybe penance, and it aches in places it should and in ones it shouldn’t. His drink comes and he shoots the whiskey back, following it with a long pull of beer as Jason settles behind the microphone, a little silence going a long way through the crowd.

“This one’s not mine, but I think y’all like it well enough. Maybe you’ve heard it once or twice before. One of the best damn songs I know.”

Patterson’s stomach twists and he’s almost afraid he’s going to break the bottle in his hand, end his guitar career with glass splinters in his hand as those damn familiar notes crawl up his spine. He knows the words, hell, he _wrote_ the words, and it’s just as dangerous and painful as it was at his kitchen table, because Jason’s going through the same damn thing, only this time maybe Patterson’s even more to blame than when he divorced his wife. He feels guiltier for this, like he got everything for a song.

He gets up, unable to listen any longer and makes his way to the bar. It’s easy enough to get a bottle – enough of the bartenders around here know them well enough that they don’t fuss or argue, and half the time they just put it on a tab – and he makes his way to the back of the club, slipping in the open back door with a nod to the employees smoking in the heavy air outside. There’s what passes as a room in the back, though it’s mostly just an office doing double duty, nothing more than a desk and a safe and a spare box of shotgun shells as well as Jason’s jacket and whoever was hot enough and clever enough to make it back here before the post-show rush.

She’s gorgeous, Patterson has to give her that. Blonde hair and legs that go up to there and breasts that any man would love to lose himself in, but Patterson knows how Jason thinks, or used to, so he does his best to kick her out nicely.

“You’re not watching the show, darlin’. Jason doesn’t like that.” He doesn’t recognize her, so she’s one of Jason’s, something else he got in the split, even though none of them knew she was even up for grabs. “Go on.”

“How do you know?”

He grins, can’t help it, and leans in and proceeds to tell her something she has no right knowing. She’ll be out front next time, and she’ll know better and maybe even make her way back here again, but for now she’s out the door, tight jeans hugging her ass, and Patterson’s alone with the sound of Jason’s music muted and soft, distant enough that it only hurts a little, just enough to remind him that it’s likely never going to stop.

He’s not sure when the show ends, but it does, like they always do. The crowd’s loud for the size and the venue holds it in like an embrace. He knows Jason’ll be flushed and red from it, high on the crowd and hard from the music and maybe he’ll invite a girl or two back with him, but Patterson knows how to shut the door and knows the excuses to give if need be. They can wait their turn. He’s already been waiting too long.

Instead, Jason comes back with his band, all of them laughing and passing a bottle around. A quick twist of the knife in Patterson’s gut probably matches the wrench of the one that’s embedded in Jason’s back, as they stare at each other, like some sort of distorted mirrored image of the past and the future and the present all fucked up together. The boys in the band look from one to the other and head out the door, cigarettes or joints already in hand as they slip away. Jason stays in the doorway and shoves his hands in his pockets, staring at Patterson like he’s a cross between God and Satan, vying for a soul Jason has no intention of giving up without a fight.

“Patterson.”

“Hey, Jason.” His voice doesn’t sound like his or like anyone else’s either. It is though, he recognizes the drawl and the booze beneath his breath and he doesn’t know what comes next, doesn’t know what the fuck he’s actually doing here. “Good show.”

“Thank you.” He walks in and shuts the door and Patterson looks a little closer. Jason’s shirt is stuck to him with sweat, clinging and wet and his jeans are pulled tight over his thighs. He’s lost a little more weight and he looks _good_ and Patterson barely manages to stop himself from saying something insanely stupid and mentioning it. “What’re you doin’ here, Patterson?”

“Came to see the show.” He gestures toward the door, toward the stage and he knows he’s not fooling anyone.

“No, you didn’t.”

“I did.” It’s not really a lie. The show was on his mind, was his excuse, but they both know there’s only one real reason he’s here. “And to see you. See how you’re doing.”

“I’m doin’ fine.” Jason’s accent is thicker at night, always thicker after a show when he’s been singing and drinking, sucking up smoke from the machines and the cigarettes. Jason’s voice sounds like sex on a lazy Sunday morning and Patterson swallows hard. “Hope you don’t mind the song.”

“Haven’t minded since you started takin’ lead.” It’s the truth, but it’s a dangerous one, because the song exemplifies when things started to go wrong for Jason and Shonna, when Jason started stealing the lines Patterson wrote and making them his own. Jason just smiles a little, an acknowledgment as well as an acceptance, and Patterson struggles to fill the spaces. “Still, you keep blowing me on stage like that and they’re gonna think you’re still in love with me.”

It’s an old joke, and it falls flat between them, an elephant in the room. Jason leans back against the door and crosses his arms over his chest, and Patterson wonders briefly when Jason grew up, got old. He wonders if he had anything to do with it. Jason’s voice is even rougher now and Patterson wants to close his eyes, look away. He wants to take it all back and wonders how far back he can go. “What’re you doin’ here, Patterson?”

He stands up, pushing off the desk and walking the few steps to the door. Jason doesn’t move, but he tenses, and Patterson can almost see the muscles coiling in defense. Patterson shakes his head and it hurts to see Jason react like he’s going to get sucker punched, hurts that maybe he’s right to be wary, maybe he’s just _right_. Patterson stops just in front of Jason and sighs, looking him straight in the eye. “I don’t know. Just knew I had to come.”

“No. You didn’t.”

Patterson wishes that Jason like this didn’t remind him of Cooley, but he does. When Mike’s upset, he’s all stoic and silent, like a fucking statue. Jason’s gone cold and hard the same way, and maybe that’s why they couldn’t deal with each other unless Patterson was there to play mediator, to love them both enough that they could get along. “It really was a good show, Jason.”

“Thank you.” Polite and proud and so fucking irritating it makes Patterson want to scream. He doesn’t want to be in the middle anymore, doesn’t want to love people so much it ends up hurting them all when there’s no middle ground, just edges and extremes. “I’ll be sure to tell the band you said so.”

Friends from when Jason was younger, boys from Muscle Shoals that are _Jason’s_ friends. Boys that aren’t anything to do with Patterson or anyone else. Things and people Shonna can’t have, can’t take away. Not that she took them. They all went willingly.

“Jason.” Patterson reaches out and touches his arm, just below the sleeve of Jason’s short-sleeved buttoned down brown shirt, tracing the skin and curve of muscle. His fingers shake or maybe that’s Jason, but either way it’s like a shock to the system when he feels the skin against his fingers, when there’s nothing there between them. Patterson would call this a bad idea if he were actually thinking, but he’s not, he’s feeling. Feeling Jason and leaning in, doing things he swore he’d never do, things he promised himself were done and gone and over, just like everything else.

Jason’s mouth opens under Patterson’s and he makes a sound that hits Patterson at the base of his cock, making him harder than he already was. Jason’s mouth is wet and warm and rough, his kiss hungry and hot and full of residual anger that Patterson can taste as clear as the Jack Daniels on Jason’s tongue. Patterson slides his hands up off Jason’s arms to the wooden door, his nails scratching against it as he deepens the kiss, shifting close enough to feel Jason’s body against his as Jason moves his arms to his sides so Patterson can settle against him, between Jason’s spread legs.

“Fuck,” Patterson breathes, his hips rolling forward against Jason’s. He’s helpless to stop it, unable to keep from thrusting against him, from feeling the heat and the hardness of Jason’s body rough against his. “Fuck.”

Jason’s hands settle on Patterson’s hips, light and hesitant at first until Patterson presses closer still, snaking a leg back behind Jason’s. They’ve never been like this before, with Patterson taking the lead, Patterson being aggressive and hungry instead of Jason sinking down to his knees and worshiping like Patterson’s the answer he’s been looking for all his life, the one that makes it all make sense. The problem is that Patterson can’t make sense of any of this anymore, so he’s just as lost as Jason, floundering nearly as much out here without the band or the music.

Jason’s fingers tighten, curling into the belt loops of Patterson’s jeans and tugging him closer and there’s another noise, though Patterson’s not sure who makes it. He slides his hands down Jason’s arms again, shivering when he hits skin and kissing Jason all the harder for it. Jason’s not resisting, hell, he’s contributing now and Patterson’s hands keep heading south until he has to hitch his hips back to get Jason’s jeans undone.

He knows this isn’t an answer. He knows it’s not even something for the pain, but for all that, it’s something he has to do. He’s never really fancied himself a lyricist, and he sure as hell doesn’t have the words to tell Jason he’s sorry, that he understands as best he can. He can’t say that he knows where everyone’s coming from and he gets it all, that getting Cooley doesn’t mean not getting Jason, and loving Shonna doesn’t mean he doesn’t lie in bed sometimes and wonder if they all did the right thing. He can’t find the words to make it right, and he’s not even sure they exist, but maybe actions can speak louder, maybe something will make it better, so that thinking of Jason doesn’t make him hurt all the time.

Jason huffs a breath that’s more like a gasp as Patterson sinks down, tugging denim with him as he goes. He’s never done this to Jason, never been down on his knees in front of him, and the few times he’s done it in his life, it’s been at Cooley’s feet, and this is nothing like that. Cooley’s all arcs and sharp edges, and Jason is pliant and warm and his skin is moist with sweat and the musky smell of want. Patterson licks his lips and looks up, and Jason’s watching him with dangerous eyes, eyes that see too much, but Patterson’s scared they won’t see enough. This isn’t an apology, even for the parts of it that it _is_ an apology, and hopefully Jason knows that. Patterson thinks he does. Jason always got what Patterson meant better than he ever got what Patterson said.

It’s been a while, and the hard press of heavy flesh on his tongue takes some getting used to, and Patterson curls his hands around Jason’s hips to keep him from thrusting long enough to acclimate himself to the feel and slide of it. He’s good at this even without practice – Cooley’s a vocal son-of-a-bitch when he gets going – and he knows what feels good and what doesn’t and what bridges that line right between the two that always rocks Cooley right to orgasm and, goddamn it, he needs Cooley out of his head; especially since Jason’s watching him with disbelieving eyes, and Patterson wonders what it’s like to see someone you look up to down on their knees in front of you, worship in the other direction. Patterson holds the gaze, loosening his grip on Jason’s hips enough to let him start to move, both of them falling into that easy rhythm they have together, one singing lead and the other on harmony.

Jason comes with his hand buried in Patterson’s curls, tugging at the strands of hair hard enough to hurt. Patterson revels in the pain, sucking harder at Jason’s cock until whatever sounds Jason’s making slip over the edge from pleasure to something beyond it before he pulls back, swallowing again and licking his lips. Jason’s hand is still in his hair and Patterson turns his head and tastes Jason’s wrist before closing his eyes and leaning his head back, slipping free of Jason’s loosened hold.

“Doesn’t change anything.” Jason’s voice is softer now, easier, but no less emotionally charged for it. Maybe more now that Patterson’s brought everything to the surface, made it all alive and real.

“Wasn’t meant to.” Patterson angles himself to his feet, nearly losing his balance and catching himself on Jason, feeling Jason’s long fingers curve around his bicep for support. “Not really.” He meets Jason’s eyes, not willing to look away, even if would be easier for both of them, _on_ both of them. “I’m sorry, Jason.”

“No, you’re not.” He moves over to the desk, as far away from Patterson as he can manage without leaving the confines of the room. There’s a bottle on the desk though, so Patterson doesn’t blame him, reaching out after Jason’s had a pull to wash the taste of come out of his mouth, though it doesn’t take away from the taste of Jason. “You’ve got a good band. You guys are set.”

“I’m sorry it came down to this.”

“We all knew it would in the long run.” Jason stares down at his hands, his left hand bare now, his fingers still hard and calloused from the guitar. “It just happened faster this way. Didn’t change the outcome, Patterson. Just the timeline.”

“You believe that?”

Jason sighs and takes another hit from the bottle. “Have to.”

Patterson nods and shoves his hands in his pockets, wondering what he’s supposed to do now. He’s said his goodbyes, made his apologies and everything’s the same as it was this morning when he had the brilliant idea to hit the road and try to make amends only to learn some things can’t be mended. “Good luck to you, then.” He nods again, unable to stop, and manages a smile he doesn’t quite feel. “You know we all wish you the best.”

“I know.” Jason returns the nod, and he looks more in control than Patterson feels, and Patterson’s not sure when that happened either. The world’s gone like Wonderland, upside-down and sideways all at once. “I wish the same for you.” He holds out his hand and Patterson stares at it like it’s some sort of trick, something foreign for a good ol’ southern boy. Jason sighs and shakes his head. “Where’re you stayin’ tonight?”

“Thought I’d crash on Dad’s couch.”

“Your dad know that?” Patterson clears his throat and reaches for the bottle, hiding everything he can behind the brown shade of the bottle. Jason laughs and Patterson thinks it’s the first natural sound he’s heard in a while, the first one that sounds like _Jason_ , or at least the Jason that Patterson used to know. “I’ve got a couch of my own, you know.”

“Probably won’t be the best idea I’ve had in a while.” Patterson says what they’re both thinking, but that doesn’t really change much at all. They both know he’ll say yes, and they both know tomorrow morning it will be just like it was before, like it has to be now. “Of course, it’s not like that’s ever stopped me, is it?”  



End file.
